Undefeated
by PurpleYin
Summary: SiB/TRF oneshot contemplation fic. Some things Sherlock keeps getting wrong. John tells him when he disappoints him, not everyone who should does though. One-sided Sherlock/Molly of canon kind, turning to more of a Sherlock & Molly friendship piece.


Spoilers: Up to end of S2

A/N: As yet not betaread.

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><p>Molly Hooper always greeted him with a smile. The seventh time in a row he found it curious, her behaviour didn't falter around him, merely her speech – she was predictable, steady, she never failed to give him what he wanted. She was useful unlike a great number of people he encountered day to day and he was grateful. On occasion he graced her with his own grin, initially an attempt to put her at ease, though he realised rapidly that it did no such thing.<p>

He kept coming back because why wouldn't he when she kept letting him do as he pleased. She observed his experiments with interest - not put off one jot by his bloodied hands and his dry manner - and he observed her enjoyment of his presence with wry amusement. He liked to flirt with her, merely to see how he could affect her so totally. It seemed a kindness too, throwing her a bone.

Their interactions continue like that for long time before he is corrected and told the problem with his approach. John called it leading her on. Sherlock hadn't considered that she'd seriously try to ask him out, so he hadn't considered it relevant. He'd successfully deflected her worrying request for coffee and he'd heard no more. Molly still greet him with a smile, still let him into the lab and wheeled out the bodies at his beck and call and was none the worse off for it surely. Nothing was wrong.

Until 'Jim'.

She resented his 'gay' observation. She resented him more when she'd been stood up. Molly was resistant to his presence for several weeks. She did what he asked, eventually, but she broke her pattern, she didn't smile when she saw him anymore. This wasn't relevant except as a signifier she disliked him. He did feel a little put out that she was resenting his intelligence simply because he'd told her something inconvenient to her world view. He 'd thought her better than that. She never had any problem arguing scientifically and accepting when he was correct in that arena.

Peoples _feelings_ were eternally baffling to him. The extremes were easy enough, the ranges were harder. Whenever he thought he'd cracked it, for the few people he cared to consider them of, they'd go up and change on him. Feelings shifting silently in a blink of an eye, leaving him with abrupt words and unfamiliar body language as often insufficient clues.

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><p>It is much later in their generally fleeting association that he is blindsided by her. He rambles on unaware about her new suitor, finding it annoying he's not noticed any signs before now. He doesn't like to miss clues and he's overcompensating with the exposition. His brain and mouth trundles on, racing towards a spectacular conclusion he has missed too.<p>

_Dearest Sherlock _

A realisation that everyone else in the room must have seen long ago he supposes from the uncomfortable looks exchanged. Noting for next time that he _really _should have paid attention to John's terse one word warning, Sherlock swallows and resists the urge to abandon the party entirely. Embarrassment burns in his throat tightly, knowing he can't leave it like this however appealing it is to calmly depart the scene, dismiss the indiscretion and leave John to the standard excuses he dredges up on his behalf. Excuses that everyone here knows and does not accept. They share too much knowledge of him, the truth that even he isn't that socially inept, unless he finds it convenient.

Molly takes his stunned silence and runs with it, a heartfelt complaint at his lack of sensitivity that is all too deserved. He wishes she didn't care. He can't comprehend why she does. He no longer gives her hope. He doesn't flirt, doesn't toy with her affections like he once did. Was the damage done long ago, remnants of tattered faith patched up over and over, or is this an inexplicable and unpredictable emotion of a kind he could not dampen?

"I'm sorry. Forgive me."

He presses his lips to her cheek, a precious moment that is his own gift to her. It is altogether not enough to right all he has done and at the same time too much.

He wants to kill the hope in her heart because she can't see it's not good for her, that he could never be right, never make her happy and had indeed already made her unhappy. Moriarty following his trail right to her, taking his cues from Sherlock, toying with her more viciously, unnecessarily.

Sherlock knows he is not the man for her and he suspects judging from the hurt she'd shown that she may know it at this precise point in time, though she is too forgetful or too forgiving and the pain will fade. Oh she smiled at him once upon a time, bright and dazzling, but less and less so these days. When she smiles it's for a memory of hope and not the reality of Sherlock Holmes she keeps uncovering.

He wants to kill the hope in her heart and if he were truly serious he should crush it now, witnesses be damned. That would be a more visceral humiliation, a raw defeat of her defiant affection for him. He should do it, but he can't. He can't give up being wanted.

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><p>He had thought there was nothing more than could surprise him in regard to Molly. He had been so very wrong.<p>

"I don't count."

That was what anyone would think. That was what he'd been aiming for. He'd wanted her to think that too, yet he is not prepared when she says it.

He'd wanted her to not care, he'd given up on her and expected her to give up on him in return.

A slow but psychologically healthy path to the end of her being nothing more than an acquaintance/colleague to help him out. He'd been reckless with her friendship, dashed her dreams, turned away to let it wither and die in the background. It never had and he hadn't noticed. That was the same mistake he'd made before and if it were possible he had hurt her more. Yet here she was offering him anything she could to ease his troubles.

"Wh-what could I possibly need from you?"

He asks himself that question over and over in the hours afterwards and discovers there are several ideas that occur where her position and profession will be invaluable. Ideas that are risky for her, potentially career ending. She'd do it he knows, if he asks, if she knew why it must be done. She'd smile and act like it's nothing to save his life. Like she does it every day. Maybe she would if she had to and it scares him the dedication lurking under the surface of what he incorrectly categorised as a 'crush'. He has been foolish in his detachment, oblivious to what happens _despite_ him.

What he is ill prepared for is the knowledge he isn't in control. He can't give up being wanted not only because he needs it – from John, from her - or because he is not so heartless to outright push her away, but because it is not his to decide. He doesn't deserve it, doesn't reciprocate or feign feeling towards her anymore and there she is by his side with nothing to gain; seeing past his facade; giving anything and everything to a man who doesn't appear to care about her and with no expectation of a return.

She thinks she doesn't count to him. All this time ignoring her he has been denying her the small piece of recognition he _can_ give her, that she has meaning in his life, and he can't let that situation stand. It sickens him the same way as when he imagines John will soon enough think him a dead fraud. At least one of those he can fix today.


End file.
